


She Walks in Beauty

by frankie_bell



Category: Little Women (1994), Little Women (2017), Little Women (2019), Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daydreaming, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romantic Angst, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_bell/pseuds/frankie_bell
Summary: All this time, Laurie had fancied himself in love with Jo not because he knew what it meant to be in love, but rather because he didn't. And now, at the height of his malaise and discontent, Amy came to him to remind him of a truth he'd known for some months yet refused to acknowledge.For the first time, Laurie thinks of Amy not as a sister or friend, but as something more.
Relationships: Theodore Laurence/Amy March
Comments: 18
Kudos: 241





	She Walks in Beauty

The day the dreamed changed, morphed into something above him and beyond him, Laurie was sitting at the piano forte, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a fall of black hair hanging sadly over his even blacker eyes. He had been staring at the same piece of sheet music for nearly two hours, his head bursting with half-formed melodies and jagged interludes. They passed through him like waves pounding against the shoreline, desiccating into foam and then nothingness. 

His fingers twitched mournfully against the keys. If he were a genius, he’d have completed his opera months ago. But Laurie was no genius, and his opera, however nobly conceived and nurtured, was little more than a diversion, something to keep his restless mind occupied while he drifted, ghostlike, through the great gardens and cathedrals of Europe, his broken heart struggling to mend itself from an injury so grave, he feared he might never recover. 

Sighing, he pushed away from the piano and took a turn about the room, admiring the watercolors and acrylics that hung like so many windows into the past. His grandfather had left shortly after breakfast to attend to some business in town and wasn’t expected back until suppertime, and the maid had come and gone hours ago, leaving Laurie to wander the apartment in “Byronic solitude,” as Jo would say. Perhaps he would take a stroll along the South Bank or join some of his friends for a game of billiards.

Or, he thought, noting the eerie silence that cushioned his every footfall, perhaps he would take this opportunity to relieve the incredible tension that had been building at the base of his spine, inflamed by the hollow sound the piano made whenever he stroked its keys.

The decision was an easy one, and Laurie soon found himself shut up in the parlor off the kitchen, his opera (and its delightful heroine) abandoned for the time being.

He took off his vest and folded it neatly, setting it on the table beside the Waterford vase so as not to wrinkle it. Then, he stretched out on the sofa, loosening his tie so that it hung limply around his neck and undoing the first two buttons of his blouse. As a boy, Laurie had never been bold enough to make himself comfortable for such occasions, his schoolmaster's stern lectures on the evils of self-abuse never far from his mind. Thankfully, college had cured him of this moralistic folly, and he now found it quite easy to unlace his trousers and reach a hand inside, his thoughts straying immediately to Jo. 

The twist of her mouth. 

The course texture of her hair. 

The way her voice rose whenever she said, _Not now, Teddy!_

Although Laurie had loved Jo for as long as he could remember, she was an obstinate, intractable girl, and whenever he called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections or romantic visions of her, he was left wanting. At first, he convinced himself it was because his love was too pure, too innocent, too crystal clear to be muddied by such perversity. But the longer she evaded him, both in the waking world and in dreams, the less he believed his own yarn.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine that it was Jo's hand, not his own, touching him so intimately. Her fingers would be rough and ink-stained, her palm, like her heart, impossibly warm. Laurie leaned his head against the arm of the sofa, stroking himself harder and faster. Images flashed before his eyes, but for the first time, they weren’t vague or disjointed. His mind faltered for a moment before his body demanded that he continue.

It was Amy.

The hand was not rough and ink-stained, but soft and unblemished, the skin cool to the touch.

In Nice, he had told her, _It takes two flints to make a fire. You are as cool and soft as snow_ , and she had replied, in her dignified manner, _You don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly._

He felt that tingle now, from the ends of his hair to the soles of his feet, for the Amy beside him was as real and as solid as she had ever been in Nice, her hair just as yellow, her cheeks just as pink. Shame and arousal warred inside Laurie as he imagined what Mr. and Mrs. March would say. For years, he had acted as an older brother to Amy, defending her honor and safeguarding her virtue, yet here he was, pleasuring himself to the thought of her lily-white hand on his cock. It was vile, he knew, but it was also as natural as breathing or eating or humming along to Mozart's 'Rondo Alla Turca.' 

All this time, he had fancied himself in love with Jo not because he knew what it meant to be in love, but rather because he didn't. And now, at the height of his malaise and discontent, Amy came to him—in a dream, yes, but what are dreams if not reflections of our innermost thoughts and desires?—to remind him of a truth he'd known for some months yet refused to acknowledge. Laurie shuddered and shook as the reality of his emotions burned through him like wildfire, stealing his breath and weakening his knees. What he felt for Amy wasn't the filial love of a brother or the chaste love of a friend, but the passionate, bone-deep love of...

 _Of what?_ he wondered, his hand—no, Amy's hand—tightening reflexively around his cock. 

Laurie bit his lip to keep from keening, his eyes shut tight against the sudden pleasure. If Amy were truly here, would she turn up her nose in disgust, or would she kneel before him like Joan of Arc at the altar, her golden head catching the light and bathing them both in rainbows? At Valrosa, she had compared him to a knight, but he had never told her how like a siren she looked, with her keen eyes and sharp, discerning smile. If only he had known his heart then as he did now, he would have confessed how ardently he admired her, and how that admiration had turned to love, as true and as deep as anything he had ever felt.

But he hadn't known his heart then, and so he was forced to content himself with a pale phantom.

In the dream, Amy was as lovely as ever, a fountain of curls spilling over her shoulders and breasts as she reached forward to grasp him with a delicate hand. She would be hesitant at first, uncertain, but he would guide her, his eyes making love to her while the rest of his body remained politely, painfully still. They would go on this way for what felt like hours, their foreheads pressed together as he taught her how to please him, his one hand leading hers while the other flexed and then relaxed against the softness of her hip. 

It wouldn't take long for Amy to grow bolder, more self-assured, her mouth finding his as she worked him over with long, firm strokes. Laurie tightened his grip as he imagined how she would kiss (audaciously, as if she had everything and nothing to prove) and taste (bittersweet, like Meg's black currant jam). That they were old friends who had shared a childhood would seem inconsequential in the face of their longing, each new kiss elevating them beyond their former selves until they were just two people who needed each other desperately. 

Laurie's pulse quickened as he realized that everything Amy had said and done was for his own good. When she called him "Lazy Laurence" and admonished him for his many flights and flaws, what she meant was, _I expect better from you._ For years, she had watched him squander his money, talent, position, and beauty, all the while making herself into the kind of woman she had always envied and admired, poverty be damned. If life were a shabby old tarlatan, then Amy March would wrap it in illusion tulle and call it a ball gown, for she was nothing if not ambitious, pragmatic, and believing. But it was her belief in him, in the man he was as well as the man he could become, that rendered Laurie speechless. 

If given the chance, he would lay her down on the sofa and kneel beside her at a reverent distance, his eyes brimming with naked adoration which would soon kindle into a warmer sentiment. She would be equal parts nervous and excited, unsure of where to place her hands or when to lean forward and kiss him again. Then, once she had settled, he would talk to her, mingling the words of Burns and Shelley with his own specially composed declarations, watching in awe as the black of her pupils swallowed up the blue of her irises.

Laurie shifted against the pillows, trying to stave off his orgasm as he pictured what Amy would look like beneath him, her hair fanned out like the rays of the sun. He would worship her, drown in her, make her fall to pieces on his lips and tongue and fingers, her blunt nails dragging through his hair, over his shoulders, and down his back, leaving little red lines in their wake. Only when his ministrations drew from her a falling, sighing sound would he finally pull back, his wet chin coming to rest in the hollow space between her ribs and her hips.

 _Did that feel good?_ he could remember his married French lover asking him after he'd surrendered his virginity some months earlier. He repeated the question to Amy now, even if it was only in his mind, and she nodded in that coy, confident way of hers. In this moment, Laurie felt seen and loved, and that was all that mattered. Not Grandfather's wishes or Jo's rejection or even his own failed aspirations—only Amy and the way she made him feel.

“Only Amy…”

Laurie turned the words over again and again, amazed at the ease with which they formed on his lips. How could he have been so foolish, so willfully blind to his own feelings? He should have known Amy had taken up residence in his heart the minute he sat down to write his opera. After trying and failing to summon Jo for his heroine, a more obliging damsel had presented herself like some sort of angel cast down from Heaven to impel his idle hands and rescue him from the self-destruction which had taken root in him like a furious weed. And yet for months, he had denied her name as if denying the pull of gravity. 

He would deny her no more.

Even in his mind, Laurie hesitated before pulling Amy into his lap, the hardness between his legs rising to meet her as the sun meets the sky. She would be coy about it, as all young women are taught to be, but that wouldn't stop her from taking his hand in her much smaller one and guiding it to her naked breast, the sunlight from the window painting her white skin gold. He would take her slowly, languidly, his eyes holding hers as if to ask, _Is this all right?_ And she would answer him by making no move to release herself from his loving grip, her hips rocking to and fro, to and fro, until he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. 

A pulse of white-hot light flared behind Laurie's eyes, and he came with a loud, rolling cry, the tears he'd been holding onto so tightly slipping down his cheeks and cleansing him like summer rain. He drew breath to speak, only for it to be stolen by a second, more mirthful sob. 

Tomorrow, he would write to Amy, and everything would be as it was meant. 

Tomorrow, he would start anew. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ask, and ye shall receive, lemon-lovers! 
> 
> All kidding aside, I want to wish the happiest of birthdays to my best friend, Pardis. Because of the statewide lockdown, we can't see each other in person, but that doesn't mean I can't gift you smutty fan fiction on your special day. I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> This fic is set between the _Little Women_ chapters "Lazy Laurence" and "Learning to Forget," after Laurie has taken Amy's tough love to heart and left her in Nice to go work for his grandfather. I know this piece is basically porn (tagging it was a trip), but I tried to include some real character development and introspection. After all, this is a pivotal moment for Laurie, and I wanted to explore what that ‘a-ha’ moment might look like for him. I’m also a firm believer that people are their truest selves during sex, so it made perfect sense to me that Amy would figure into some of his more *ahem* private thoughts. 
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment or kudos. I love connecting with fellow fans and will happily respond to your feedback, even if it’s just to chat about the book/film. Thanks again for reading, and stay safe out there!


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